


Day For Night

by adjovi



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28167567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjovi/pseuds/adjovi
Summary: Eliot, after the dust settles, finds himself alone and teaching at Brakebills. Post S5. (Or maybe--not?)
Relationships: Margo Hanson/Josh Hoberman, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 40
Kudos: 71





	1. Fin

**Author's Note:**

> SO, yeah. Been a hot minute. The story idea was floated like MANY moons ago by ElectricPurple89 on the RAO Discord server, and I thought WHAT a cool idea. So, I ran with it--plotting it out, outlining. The whole nine. And yeah. Then. 2020. So. Anyways. This story would not have been brought to life without my beautiful cheerleaders and betas--looking at you Rubick, snoopypez, and last but not least, Allgeria23, who gently nudged me for like forever along to bringing this story to life.

If you’d asked baby Eliot what he wanted to be when he grew up, well—the immediate answer would’ve been far away from Indiana. And yeah. Fait _fucking_ accompli. But, he had gone to Art school, way back in another life, with sights on being an _Actor_ ™. Getting his big break on Broadway. Slumming as a reality star? _Professo_ r wouldn't've cracked the top ten. He’d ended up an actor after all; pretending everything wasn’t all FUBAR, that every moment of entropy wasn’t marching steadily onwards towards death. 

He had been worried that Charlton would catch feelings, so he cut that off as soon as it had started. But Charlton had shifted to something approaching friends as easily as he had transitioned from being the Jiminy Cricket of Eliot’s psyche to the implacable optimist that gave him serious Kenneth from _30 Rock_ vibes. Which? Maybe that was what Eliot needed right now?

And honestly, the novelty of being the Obi Wan to the sexual awakening of a padawan died with the only man he truly ever loved. (Who could also, incidentally, be blamed for that particular pop culture nugget). He felt that swirling howl of grief bubble up, just to shove it right back down, making his coffee truly Irish with a generous dollop from his flask. 

Hearing a movement behind him, Eliot turned and came face to face with a bland-looking guy he had never seen before, so ordinary in appearance that if Eliot passed him on the street, he would not have looked twice. The guy in question was turning his hands over, inspecting them. He was simply clad in jeans and a novelty t-shirt that had Danny Devito’s face in the center of a Dorito. Bold choice. He held the t-shirt out by the hem, shaking his head in disgust. 

“And you are?” Eliot raised an eyebrow at him.

“Somebody’s idea of a fucking joke, I guess.” He rolled his eyes. “Har fucking har.”

Eliot clicked his tongue, bemused. “I don’t know if the rules still apply, but the Cottage is for Physical Kids—”

“Cut the shit, Eliot.” The guy scoffed, crossing his arms in an annoyed gesture. 

Eliot jerked back in surprise. “Do I know you?” 

The guy threw his head back, wiping his face with his whole palm. “If only it could be that easy. I can’t tell you that. It’s against the rules.”

“Rules?” _Uh_ . “Are we playing a game?” He was equal parts fearful and intrigued. Bland guy was the first exciting thing to happen to him for a while. Life at Brakebills had become a never-ending whirl of drudging routine: teaching classes, passing out blind drunk at the end of every evening. Sometimes he’d let Charlton join him for a glass or five. A distraction from the exquisite loneliness that pierced him in the center of his chest, if only for a little while. _What you’ve earned._

The guy sighed dramatically, throwing his head back to the ceiling. “Look. It took us a really long time to find you. You were hidden pretty carefully this time. You weren't in the last place.”

Icy tendrils of dread began to spread across his chest. “What the fuck are you talking about _?”_

“Well, shit.” He tilted his head to the side, studying Eliot. “Where do you think you are right now?”

What in the actual fuck? “Um, are you ok? Is there something wrong with you, or—”

The guy cleared his throat. “Eliot? Where _are_ you right now?” 

Eliot turned slowly in a circle, taking in the whole of the room. “Um, Brakebills? Specifically, the Physical Kids Cottage?” 

The man left out a huge puff of air. “Right. Ok. And, how did you get here?”

“Uh.” Eliot tugged at the front of his hair, gesturing towards the door with a jut of his chin. “The normal way? Who are you, anyway?”

The guy clicked his tongue. “Just call me—Sam.”

“Ok, ‘Sam.’ And, again, who the fuck are you?”

“Dammit, Eliot. We don’t have a lot of time here. Just answer the question—why are you _here_? Specifically? In the Cottage?”

Eliot couldn’t figure out what this guy’s game was, but it was beginning to piss him off. “I live here. I’m a Professor.”

Sam did laugh at that. “Why would a _Professor_ be living in the Cottage, Eliot? What? They run out of available rooms for the staff?”

And that—actually Eliot didn’t know how to answer. Because, in all honesty, he couldn’t quite remember the _why._ Just that he did. Fogg had offered him a position, and he had accepted because — well — he really didn’t have any better offers. Everyone had left him and — he felt a wave of despair come over him. _What you deserve,_ whispered the hateful little earworm that was now his permanent companion. Everyone had just left. 

As if voicing his very thoughts, Sam began to speak again. “And, where is everyone, Eliot? Where are all of your friends?”

“Uh.” Eliot sighed, scrubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I don’t know who you—”

“Your friends, Eliot?” Sam had gentled his voice. “Where’d they go?”

Eliot took a fortifying sip of his coffee, before setting the mug down. “They left, ok? They just—things got pretty fucked up, and everyone ended up going their separate ways.” He swallowed thickly. “I was left behind.”

Sam sighed again. “They didn’t leave, Eliot.” 

“What are you talking about? Of course they left. I should know.” Eliot felt his breath hitch, but he wasn’t about to give this stranger the ability to make him cry. He really didn’t believe he had any tears left at this point. 

“They wouldn’t just leave you.” Sam appeared painfully earnest, trying to implore him, but an undercurrent of annoyance was running through. Eliot suddenly felt the strangest sense of recognition, like maybe he _knew_ this guy, but Sam’s next question derailed that train of thought. “You know where some of them are, right?”

“I—” A thump reverberated from upstairs, and they both turned towards the noise. Probably Charlton. No one else was around. 

When Sam turned back towards Eliot, his eyes were wide. “Look. I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, but listen—nothing is what it seems here. Trust no one.” 

Eliot scoffed. “Ok, _X-files_.” 

“You watched the _X-files_?”

“Peak Duchovny. Of course.” Eliot swirled his glass around for emphasis.

Sam sighed, blowing out a long breath and rolling his eyes. “Right, Eliot—Jesus. I wish I could just—” He licked his lips and closed his eyes, as if steeling himself. “But I can’t risk him finding out.”

“ _Him_ who?” Eliot felt the nascent stirring of a thought, like just on the edge of something he couldn’t quite understand. An alarm sounding softly. He was inexplicably filled with dread.

More noise came from upstairs, and Sam seemed to make a decision, his voice tight with urgency. “I have to go. Now. But please, remember what I told you. And don’t tell anyone about me.” He looked around the room quickly. “I’ll try and come again.” 

Charlton came bounding down the stairs towards them, but by the time he’d reached the bottom, Sam was gone. “Who were you talking to?” Charlton was aiming for flippant as he sprawled out on the sofa, propping his feet on the coffee table. It was so jarring to see him dressed in simple jeans and a light blue t-shirt, approximating a normal person. 

Eliot made a split-second decision, one that could likely bite him in the ass, but he decided to err on the side of caution. “No one.” He fished his phone from his pocket, waving it for Charlton’s benefit. “A student—he had some questions about the mid-term. Was on speakerphone.” 

Charlton regarded him speculatively a bit longer before dropping the line of inquiry, shooting him a grin. “What do you want to do for dinner?” 

Life went on. Classes continued. Eliot kept making bad life decisions concerning booze and drugs. He tried to convince himself that _maybe_ he’d imagined the whole thing, it was a daydream, or an outright hallucination. His psyche had been through the ringer the last few years, and that was being kind. Besides, Charlton himself had been a figment of his own imagination, so. 

He tried tracking down Fogg to find out _why_ he had been placed in the Cottage, but every time he dropped by his office, the Dean was mysteriously missing. Which was decidedly weird, right? That was weird. But the more time passed, the better he convinced himself that Sam had never happened.

He was grading term papers at the dining room table when Sam popped in next, wearing a t-shirt printed with a black cat holding a leg bone with the caption “I Found This Humerus.” Eliot jumped a little in his seat, startled by the man suddenly appearing. “Jesus!”

“Eliot, what the fuck are you doing?” He gestured at the mounds of papers on the table. “I told you. None of this is real. You need to sort your shit. We don’t have a lot of time.”

“And I need to grade these fucking papers by tomorrow, so—” Eliot raked a hand through his hair, frustrated.

Sam let out an exasperated sigh, shoving at the papers, causing them to flutter to the floor. “This isn’t real, Eliot. You need to quit dicking around—”

“What in the actual fuck?” Eliot stood up quickly, eyes going wide at the papers all over the floor. He slapped his arms to his sides. “Great. Just great.” He bent to start picking the papers up, startling when Sam put a hand on his arm.

Sam was regarding him earnestly. “Look. I know this doesn’t make sense. But, ask yourself: why haven’t you tried to find your friends?” 

At that, Eliot blinked a few times, shaking his head. “I—uh.” He was shocked to discover he didn’t know why; it just didn’t seem like a possibility. He needed to focus on teaching, and besides, Julia and Penny were out there looking even now. 

Sam shot him a solemn look and gentled his voice. “I wasn’t lying. I know you don’t believe me, but your friends haven’t left you. You just have to know where to look, ok?” The backdoor to the Cottage opened, and they both turned to look at the sound. “Ok. I’m sorry, but I have to go. But, please, Eliot. This is very important. Please try and think where you might find some of them—” He blinked out of existence just as Charlton came through the kitchen. 

“What happened here?” Charlton eyed the mess on the floor.

“Oh. I uh—” He shrugged, feigning irritation. “Lost my temper. Turns out grading term papers _sans_ alcohol isn’t recommended.”

Charlton looked around a little suspiciously. “Thought I heard voices in here.”

Eliot bent down, scooping up the papers from the floor and shoveling them back on the table. “Nope. Just me bitching about the fact that apparently _some_ of my students absorbed exactly nothing this semester.” 

Charlton eyed him another moment before giving in and helping him, snagging the remaining papers from the floor.

Afterward, though, Eliot couldn’t keep himself from turning the conversation with Sam over in his mind. He kept looking for the proverbial black cat to cross his path twice, revealing a break in the code. That never came. But, he couldn’t let go of what Sam had said:that his friends hadn’t abandoned him. That tiny bud had taken root in a desert wasteland he had long thought dead. Problem was, if they _were_ here, he couldn’t fathom where they could be. Or figure out _why_ he hadn’t even tried looking.

Maybe there were other solutions. _You know where some of them are_ . His best bet would be the Penthouse in the city, probably. Maybe Kady would be there. Could he trust her? Sam said _trust no one_ , but — could he even trust _himself_ at this point?

Something had to break the inertia he was trapped in. So, on a Saturday a few weeks later, Eliot, under the pretense of heading to the grocery store to grab a few things for dinner, left the Cottage with a couple changes of clothes in a reusable bag. He waved off Charlton’s offer to come along, insisting he relax. For a guy trapped in an abandoned castle at the end of the world for centuries with entertainment options limited to playing hide and seek with his jailer, Mario Kart was a fucking revelation. Eliot didn’t even feel guilty for his subterfuge—he’d been holed up on campus for months now, and he was entitled to some alone time. So, he took the portal set up beyond the edges of campus and landed in the city a few blocks from the Penthouse. He fingered the key in his pocket, the fact that he still even had it was an indication that maybe _._ somewhere inside his flattened pancake of a heart; there were still some tiny bits of hope left. 

But the Penthouse was empty, completely deserted. The stark, impersonal decor stood out in sharp relief, especially when there were no people around. He flicked on the lights, apparently someone was paying to keep them on; a cursory check of the fridge made it seem like someone had been here recently. He pulled out his phone, realizing he could just call Kady, but was interrupted by the whoosh-pop of Sam traveling in.

“Thank fuck you made it!” Sam was clad in a grey t-shirt advertising _Middle Earth's Annual Mordor Fun Run_ . He pulled out the hem of the shirt, rolling his eyes. “Of fucking course.” The _fuck_? 

Eliot took a step back in surprise. “How’re you here?”

“Took an educated guess. I couldn’t imagine what other places they could be, so this just made the most sense. I needed to talk to you alone.”

“I don’t understand—”

Sam nodded. “I know.” He stepped towards Eliot, settling down on the overly large couch that looked like something vomited from the Wayfair catalogue. On steroids. “Ok. So why don’t you start by telling me where everyone is.”

Eliot sighed, shooting a longing look at the bar cart. He plucked a bottle of nice-looking rye and held it at an angle towards Sam. “This conversation definitely needs _all_ the alcohol. You game?”

Sam snorted, slapping his thigh with one hand. “Sure. Why not?”

So, Eliot poured them both two fingers of whiskey and handed one over to Sam, joining him on the couch. Say what you would about Marina, she had exquisite taste. Or, the previous owners did. He wasn’t clear on the whole lineage of the Penthouse’s past tenants, but really couldn’t give a shit. He held his glass up towards Sam for a toast, letting the rye sit a bit on his tongue before swallowing. “Well, most of them are in New Fillory.”

“ _New_ Fillory?” Sam had sipped as well, clearing his throat against the burn. “What happened to the old one?”

Eliot sniffed. “We had to destroy it. But we found a spell, and could grow a new world. So. We raptured everyone in Fillory and then they carried them to the new land. I think .” He took another fortifying sip.

“You think?” Sam shook his head in confusion.

“Yeah. Well. I couldn’t cast.” He held up his arms in demonstration. “My arms were broken—long story.”

“ _OOOK_ .” Sam scratched in between his eyebrows. “So, the whole gang went to this— ” he gestured with his glass, “ _New_ Fillory, and left you behind?”

Eliot blew out a long breath. “Well. Not everyone. It was only Margo, Josh, Fen, and Alice. Me and Kady stayed behind because we weren’t casting. And Penny and Julia and the baby were already—”

Sam cut him off. “The _baby_ ?” He barked out a hysterical laugh, then spoke softly to himself. “ _Right_ . _Julia won’t even_ —” He placed the glass on the table, running his hands over his knees rapidly before crossing them defensively across his chest. Eliot had the strangest feeling of déjà vu once again; he knew this person. But it was skipping across the front of his mind, just out of reach. He clearly had pissed him off though, not understanding why. Sam seemed to gather himself a bit before continuing, sighing deeply. “Ok. So. What about Quentin?”

At that Eliot felt his stomach drop; his lungs suddenly devoid of air. He tongued at the back of his lip for a long moment before speaking, hoping his voice wouldn’t betray his emotions. “Quentin’s dead.” 

Sam let out a little laugh, tipping his head back, which seemed like an obnoxiously incongruous reaction. He studied the ceiling for a long moment. “Huh. Ok. Well, you could’ve led with that; would’ve saved a bunch of time.” 

Eliot felt a spike of rage flash behind his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was a barely controlled whisper. “ _What_?”

“Easy, easy.” Sam held a hand out to him, which only served to stoke Eliot’s anger. “Look. I think I figured out what is happening here in _Eliot Waugh’s No Good, Very Bad Day._ ” 

“What? I don’t—” Eliot felt like he could shudder out of his skin. 

Sam sighed again. “Look. Can you just imagine a situation where the reality you know is the very embodiment of your deepest, darkest fears?” He tilted his head, and was he regarding Eliot with actual _sympathy_ ; what in the actual fuck? “Like to the point where you’ve accepted this as fact.” He spread his hands wide. “That you think this is what you _deserve_. And, maybe that’s why you haven’t tried to escape?”

“Escape?” At that, at giving the word life, understanding hit him like a bucket of cold water. “Oh, fuck! Am I—” Now he literally felt like he was about to vibrate into an entirely different universe, the center of a collapsing star.

“You understand now? What’s happening?” Sam ducked his head, meeting Eliot’s eyes. “You have to fight, Eliot. You have to find a way to escape.”

“Oh Jesus, I—” Eliot didn’t even know where to begin, his thoughts pinging wildly. “Oh god. That’s what—” Would his happiest memories do the trick this time?

Sam stood abruptly. “Well, shit.”

And inexplicably, Charlton was there, his usually cheerful features dark with malice. “You don’t belong here!” He pointed a finger accusingly at Sam. “Eliot. Don’t listen to him. He is filling your head with lies.”

Sam huffed a laugh. “That’s rich, given—” And was cut out abruptly as Charlton sliced his hand through the air, effectively jettisoning him out of the space. 

And, oh god. Eliot got it now. How deep the subterfuge had been. Holy shit. His heart was hammering in his ears with the realization that he had no idea how long he had been trapped here. What even was reality? Could he even trust his own mind? He felt a broad swirl of emotions warring for dominance: fear, anger, confusion. And maybe? _Maybe?_ What if that meant _everything_ he had accepted as true actually — _wasn’t_? But he couldn’t ignore the all present terror that was consuming him. He backed slowly away from Charlton, completely unmoored. 

“Eliot. Listen to me.” Charlton was advancing on him menacingly, but holding his hands up like he was placating a frightened animal. “He was lying.”

“Where’d you send him?” Eliot could tell that he was failing to keep the tremble from his voice, he kept backing up until he hit the kitchen island. No way out. 

“Don’t worry about that. Why don’t we go back to the Cottage, drink some wine, have a nice night in?” Charlton had gentled his voice, but he was still advancing, almost within touching distance. “Watch that Frederick Fellatio movie you were telling me about?”

“Federico _Fellini_.” His voice went up, hysterical, and he twisted his head around in desperation, looking for any means of escape. “Don’t touch me!” Eliot moved rapidly, stowing the glass on the counter and swinging around, bringing his hands up to form battle magic.

Charlton tipped his head to the side, moving impossibly faster. “Well, fuck.” He beat Eliot to the punch; lifting his hand to the center of Eliot’s chest, and pushed. 

Blackness washed over Eliot like a wave as the ground rushed to meet him.   
  



	2. The Beauty of All Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the confrontation with Charlton, Eliot finds himself somewhere painfully familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a day early because my wonderful betas Rubick and Allgeria23 helped me whip this one into shape in record time. Excited to share this chapter.

This--had to be a dream, right? Eliot was having trouble focusing on what was in front of him. The _impossible_ thing in front of him. Because instead of hitting the cold, hard ceramic tile on the Penthouse floor, he was sitting up in the rickety wooden chair at the edge of the Mosaic, the old wood groaning in protest. The movement had _Quentin_ looking up at him, brushing his wrist over his brow. He smiled up at Eliot. “Nice nap?” 

He just stared for a good, long moment, trying to get his brain to make sense of what he was seeing. “ _Q_?” His voice thick with anguish, leaning forward. “ _Quentin_?”

Quentin was wearing that blue wrap-around top over loose, baggy brown pants, and his beard had just started growing in, so that his face was still visible, whiskers speckled with bits of grey. His big brown eyes went wide. “El?” His hand dipped down, the yellow tile he had been holding slipping to the sand. “You ok?” He hopped up, brushing the chalk and dust from his thighs. He had that crinkle between his eyes that only appeared when he was concerned, approaching Eliot gently. He reached out a hand, giving Eliot’s upper arm a squeeze. “What’s wrong, hon?”

_Hon_ . Eliot closed his eyes, shaking his head. “No no no _no_. You’re not real. None of this is real!” He felt like someone had reached into his chest and _squeezed_.

Quentin brought both hands up, rubbing Eliot’s arms up and down. “Hey! Hey, come on, El. It’s ok. You’re ok.”

But Eliot’s frantic brain wouldn’t stop whirling; completely unmoored. He had just been in the Penthouse with Charlton, who had knocked him out. He had to be dreaming, right? He pressed his palms into his eyes, inhaling deeply as he tried to make sense of the fact that he was in Fillory at the fucking Mosaic, with a very alive Quentin. “Whoa. Ok. Ok. This is a dream. Just a dream.” His voice went up at the end, frantic. He took in a huge shaky breath, letting his eyes open. He was met with warm brown eyes, wide with concern. God. Quentin was so beautiful. _Had he forgotten?_ He hadn’t.

“El?” Quentin knelt in front of the chair, thumbs running soothing circles over Eliot’s wrists. “You ok? What’s going on? Talk to me.”

He sat up, pulling away from Quentin. “No, huh.” He pinched at his eyes between thumb and pointer finger, squeezing out unshed tears. “I’m ok. I’m ok.” He licked his lips slowly, nodding to himself. “Ok. Ok.” He sighed, then his lips tugged upwards into an approximation of a smile. Ok. This had to be a dream. He couldn’t fuck up in a dream, right? He reached out a hand tentatively, cupping Quentin along his chin. “I love your beard right now. Did I ever tell you that?” 

Quentin’s eyes sparkled as he let out a little bark of a laugh. “Usually you just tease me about my _Grizzly Adams_ starter kit’”. He nuzzled his cheek against Eliot’s palm.

Eliot ran his thumb against the grain of Quentin’s whiskers. “Promise me you’ll keep it short like this? Just for a while longer? I know you want to go full Dumbledore, but I like seeing your face.” 

Quentin scrunched his nose at this. “Not like we have much in the way of beard trimmers out here. Kinda tough to--”

The door to the cabin burst open, the latch catching like always. “Dad! Daaaad! Where’d you put the cookies?” Ted came barreling out of the door, and Eliot's breath stuttered, his blood turning to ice.

Quentin sighed and sat back on his haunches, rolling his eyes. “I seem to remember _someone_ ate the whole batch last time and blamed it on the bunnies. Then got a stomach ache--”

“But, _Dad_ ! I wanna give some to the neighbor.” A ten-year-old Teddy crossed his arms indignantly, meeting his father’s gaze head on. A tiny, perfect replica of Q, but for the blue eyes. Eliot felt all of the wind rush out of his lungs. This dream was pulling out all the stops. The love he felt in that moment overtook him; washing over him like a warm wave. 

Quentin stood, crossing his arms in a pantomime his son. “ _But_ nothing! That dog doesn’t need any cookies. Neither do you, for that matter.” 

Teddy tilted his head to the side, eyes wide. Kid had learned from the master. ”Just one? _Please_.” 

Quentin sighed, cutting his eyes over at Eliot, who just shrugged. _What’re you gonna do?_ “Fine. One each.” He started towards the cabin, then spun around and pinned Teddy with a finger. “You stay out here with Papa.” 

Teddy walked over towards Eliot, dramatically splaying himself across Eliot’s knees, like the weight of the world was on his tiny shoulders. Eliot felt a flash of pride; the whole dramatic bitch thing he had _definitely_ learned from him. “Oh, Bug. And your dad says _I’m_ the pushover.” He lifted his hand and ran it through Teddy’s hair, so soft. Teddy twisted around in his lap, granting Eliot a sheepish grin. Eliot definitely wasn’t designed to handle this. 

Quentin banged back through the door, handing over the cookies. “Remember, no further than the river, and then only as far as the fence. I don’t want to hear it from the Larks that you trampled their flowers again.” He lifted his eyebrows at Teddy in challenge. “I mean it!”

“I _know,_ Dad.” Teddy rolled his eyes again, and then as quick as he came in, like a little tornado he was off. 

Eliot was hit with the weirdest memory of their neighbors, the Larks, and their jagoff of a talking dog. Who after a beer or three would go on long-winded rants about the traitorous squirrels of the Western Glen. He couldn’t for the life of him remember that dog’s name.

“The Larks’ dog is an asshole.” 

Quentin just huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Who, Cobbleclop?” Right. “Eh, he’s just a blowhard with a drinking problem.” He ran a hand over his face, scratching at his beard absently. “So, you wanna help me with this design?” When Eliot didn’t respond, he turned to face him. “Or?” 

Since this was a dream and he could do whatever he wanted, Eliot decided to do just that. He stood up and walked over to Quentin, cupping his hands around his face and leaning in for a kiss. He could tell Q was startled at first--making out in the middle of the day wasn’t necessarily off the table, but it had been awhile, if Eliot’s timing was correct. About fifteen years in, would be his guess; they were both just shy of 40. Eliot slid his hand around Quentin’s neck, just like he knew Q _loved_ to be held; Quentin went up on his toes to catch Eliot’s lips. They stayed like that for a little while, just kissing one another, soft and open, until Q dropped to his heels, catching his breath.

Quentin giggled a little, licking at his lips. “Where’d that come from?”

Eliot just had to kiss him again, slipping his tongue into Quentin’s mouth. Quentin moaned at that, and Eliot felt it resonate through his chest. He wanted to keep going, but the strain on his neck was a bit too much if he were really going to make a go of things, so he tugged on Quentin’s hand until they both sat on the daybed. 

“Eliot--wait!” But Eliot couldn’t wait. He slid his hand inside Quentin's tunic, running his fingers down a path so familiar and so foreign at the same time, smiling at how fast Quentin's pulse was beating against his palm. The distraction was working, as Quentin kept giving into the kiss, running his hands along Eliot’s shoulders. But then he pulled back, framing Eliot’s face with his hands. “Eliot! Teddy is _just_ down at the river, he could be--”

Eliot nosed at the side of Quentin’s face. “Teddy is talking Clippity Clop’s ear off right now, and you know it.”

Quentin let out a little laugh. “Cobbleclop.” Whatever. Eliot pulled at the sash on Quentin’s tunic, pushing at the collar so it slid off his shoulders. “We’re out in the open! We can’t just--”

Eliot sighed and leaned back a little, taking in Quentin’s eyes, wild with desire, the way they kept dropping to look at his lips. He grabbed Quentin’s hand, pulling him up and leading him into their little cabin. Eliot spun him around, crowding him up against the door, then pulled Quentin backwards towards their room. 

Quentin had wound his fingers around Eliot’s suspenders, inching up on tiptoes so he could keep claiming Eliot’s lips, smiling and joyous, allowing himself to be led. “We’ll have to be quick—” 

“Yeah, yeah, not expecting that to be a problem.” Eliot reached behind himself to feel for the doorknob, fumbling a little and overcorrecting, almost tumbling them both to the floor. Forced to stop, he was overwhelmed by the sense-memory of this muggy little cabin; of smoke, of earth—the smell of home. Something must have shown on his face.

Quentin ducked his head a little, readjusting his hold on Eliot’s suspenders. “You ok?” 

Eliot tried to smile, his eyes filling a little. “I’m just fine.” Quentin still looked concerned, so Eliot struggled to gain control of himself. This was the important bit. “Really. I just—” He closed his eyes and licked his lips, overwhelmed. “I just hope you know how in love I am with you. At this moment.”

Quentin’s eyes went wide. “Oh.” He let his hands drop to circle around Eliot’s back, pulling him into a hug, fitting his head under Eliot’s chin, just so. “I _do_ know. And, back at you.”

Eliot couldn’t help the soft little laugh that dropped from his lips, pulling Quentin impossibly closer, rubbing his hands across his shoulder blades. Quentin didn’t actually get the context of what Eliot was saying; but it was enough that he knew. Eliot was so incredibly grateful for the chance to give this to him. 

He let himself be present in the moment, holding Quentin, loving him. Reminiscence was one thing, vague echoes of what they had been, rose-colored and cherished. Presently, though, he was going out of his fucking mind, frantic for Quentin’s skin : to touch, to taste. Eliot couldn’t get enough, a hunger he had almost forgotten reignited in his veins. He rocked into Quentin, touching his face, memorizing every tiny change in his expression, awed at the desire plainly reflected in Quentin’s eyes. Eliot forced himself to drink it all in; he was _done_ running away from Quentin’s love. 

In the afterglow, they lay tucked into one another, Eliot nosing that strange little boundary between skin and the wood of Quentin’s prosthetic shoulder, allowing himself to be pulled Into the bouquet of sweat and sex and _Quentin_. 

Quentin, for his part, was running his foot along Eliot’s shin, like he wanted to be completely wrapped up and covered by Eliot. His hand rested in Eliot’s hair and he gently wended his fingers through his curls. “So like—uh—like I said, _definitely not complaining_ , but where’d that come from?”

Eliot snorted, kissing Quentin’s shoulder, then shifting to pull Quentin to drape loosely over his chest. He shrugged, jostling Quentin with the movement. “I missed you, is all.” He waved his hand to indicate, well, everything. “Missed this.”

Quentin lifted his head and looked at Eliot strangely. “El, I haven’t gone anywhere. And you just fucked me like I returned from the war or something.” 

Eliot smiled down at him. He loved him _so_ much it was almost a physical ache. “Well, I would never pass on the opportunity to dip and kiss you dramatically in the middle of Times Square.”

Quentin rolled his eyes and laid his head back down, but his mouth was upturned in a small, pleased smile. “Queen.” 

“Eh, you’ve met me. Once or twice.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Quentin’s head, and then they both froze, hearing Teddy come into the yard. 

_“Daddy? Papa?”_

They literally had seconds before being discovered, so they quickly separated, hastily pulling on clothes and shooting each other sly, secret smiles. Just in time, too, as Teddy burst through the door and barged right into their room. They really needed to get a lock. 

“Were you napping again?” Teddy flung himself onto the bed. The bed they’d just had sex in. Yep. Eliot remembered they got a lock sometime along the way, but maybe they needed to speed up the timeline a little. 

Quentin chuckled, cutting his eyes over to Eliot, shining with mischief. “Yeah. We were napping. Now, we need to get started on dinner.” He placed a hand on Teddy’s head, gently steering him out of the room.

“But _dad_ , Cobbleclop told me that the squirrels are gearing up for a _protest_ in the Brass City, and—”

Eliot, struck by the absurdity of it all, busted out laughing, loud and joyful, imagining the tiny little protest signs and little squirrel megaphones or whatever. It _was_ Fillory, so who the fuck knew? He pulled up short, realizing he hadn’t laughed like that in a very long time.

The good-feeling mood didn’t shift, not through dinner which, yeah, ok, Quentin had slightly burned to the point of bitterness. And not even when Teddy whined his way through a bath and bedtime, demanding _three_ stories before finally drifting off. 

Eliot felt buoyed and effulgent and _so_ in love, like he couldn’t contain what was inside, like he was filled with soap-bubbles, effervescent. He saw this reflected in Quentin, as well, as they shared private smiles. A thread of sadness threatened to force its way in, a worrisome little voice reminding him that this wasn’t real. And that they could have had this all along, if he had just _let them_. But, he was choosing to ignore that right now. 

He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, to be forced out of the dream, but it never came. Days spooled onwards. Grocery lists were prepared for market trips, extra sugar for canning before the weather turned, pickling salt and vinegar for the late summer harvest. Patching Teddy’s trousers from where he fell rough-housing with Cobbleclop. Bickering over placing tiles. _Quentin_ , just the steady, soft presence by his side. The last thing he saw before falling asleep and the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes in the morning. 

“You watching me sleep, you creeper?” Quentin swiped his nose against Eliot’s shoulder. 

“Just enjoying the view.” Eliot dipped down, claiming Quentin’s mouth, morning breath be damned.

Quentin smiled into the kiss, happy and warm. “You know, if you keep this up, I’m going to get spoiled.”

“Oh, I plan on spoiling you rotten.” 

“Well, then—” Quentin rolled over on top of him, pinning him down by his shoulders. He tilted his head down, kissing Eliot in earnest. 

And, of course, the door flew open, Teddy launching himself right near them on the bed. “What’re you doing, daddy?”

Quentin made eye contact with Eliot briefly, sliding off of him. “We—um. We were wrestling.”

“I want to wrestle!” Teddy hopped up on his knees, climbing on top of Quentin. 

Quentin snorted, then began to tickle Teddy in earnest along his sides, the little boy squealing in delight. Eliot felt so—full. In that moment. He couldn’t believe they had—this. Their family. An ordinary morning, something so mundane, but here it seemed sacred. He didn’t plan to take it for granted for even a second. 

He wondered idly if maybe Charlton had killed him, after all. If he were inclined to believe in such things, if he somehow had ended up in the good place. Not fucking likely. All things being equal, there were worse ways to spend an eternity, 

Quentin and Teddy were inside, preparing lunch. Eliot should probably go in and supervise, if he actually wanted something edible, but he felt so warm in the afternoon sun, eyes drifting shut as he began to doze. Until he felt a slight dissipation of the air around him; a vague sensation of being watched. 

A Child of Earth stood in front of him, not someone Eliot recognized, just another bland looking guy, but for the t-shirt that claimed “Surely Not _Everybody_ Was Kung Fu Fighting?” Eliot felt a dread pressing down on his chest, scrabbling back into the chair.

The man just tilted his head to the sky. “ _Finally!”_ He let out a loud sigh, letting his arms drop dramatically at his sides. “We finally found you!”

Eliot stood, stepping back behind the chair, wanting to put some distance between them. “You can’t be here.”

“Eliot, you have no idea—” The man looked around in confusion. “Where _is_ here, anyways? What is this place?”

Eliot couldn’t find his voice for a few moments, opening and closing his mouth. He chuffed an ironic laugh. “The Mosaic.” At Sam’s bewildered look, and it had to be Sam, infiltrating his dream, trying to take him away from—. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to remember that Sam was here to _help_. “The time key quest. I went on it with—”

The door squeaked open, the swollen hinges protesting the humidity. Quentin came out into the yard, hand held up to shield his eyes. “Who are you talking to?” Teddy sprinted out after him, making a beeline for Eliot, shyly tucking himself behind one leg. “Teddy! Wait up!”

“Well, holy _fucking_ shit.” Sam took a step back in shock. “Wouldn’t have called this one.”

Quentin walked over, holding a hand out to shake. “You’re from Earth? We haven’t seen other Earth children, well, since the latest king showed up a few years ago. I’m Quentin. I see you’ve already met Eliot. And this is our son, Teddy.” 

Eliot wanted to shut him up, didn’t want to share _any_ of this sacred life they carved out with _anyone_ , let alone a stranger who was trying to take him away. 

Sam’s mouth dropped open. “You have a _son_?”

The boy in question unwound himself from behind Eliot’s leg, extending his hand like he had seen his father do. “I’m Teddy Coldwater-Waugh.”

Sam shook the boy’s hand gently, glancing back up at Eliot. “Eliot, I’m really sorry.” And, Sam actually looked sorry, bouncing his gaze between Quentin and Teddy. “I didn’t know I’d be gatecrashing your happy little homestead.”

Eliot sighed deeply. “Let me guess. You’re here to get me out of here?” Eliot sniffed, squaring his shoulders. “What if I don’t want to go?”

Sam nodded. “Yep. My guess is that’s the whole point.” 

Quentin stepped forward, laying a gentle hand on Eliot’s arm. “El, what’s he—”

Eliot felt like he was going to shatter, his voice thick and low. “Please, you can’t ask me to—”

“Eliot, you don’t understand. We are so _close_.” Sam wiped a hand over his mouth. “There is no other way. Believe me, we’ve looked. But, it has to be you.”

Eliot shook his head, the tears hot behind his eyes. “I _can’t._ I won’t leave them. Not again.” Quentin squeezed his arm in reassurance, but Eliot couldn’t take comfort from this, staggered by the reality that _of course_ this wasn’t real. Ted Danson wasn’t about to pop up offering him fro-yo that tasted like freshly folded laundry because he wasn’t actually _in_ the _Good Place._

“Papa? What's he saying?” Teddy was clinging to his leg again, pressed between Quentin and himself.

“Eliot, your friends are waiting for you. _All_ of them.” Sam cracked his head around his neck. “You have to fight, Eliot. You have to force him to leave. That’s the only way you get out of this alive. We are at like Def-con 1 here.” At Eliot’s apparent confusion, he clarified. “That’s the bad one.”

And, there it was. Eliot brought his palms together in front of him, rubbing them together. He nodded a few times before clapping once and looking back up at Sam. “What if I don’t? What if I just stay here?”

Sam shook his head at the ground. “Then you will die. And he will win.” He slapped his hands again against his sides in frustration. “And, it will all have been for nothing.”

Eliot frantically ran his hand through his hair. “So what? I die a happy man. There are worse things.”

“I’m not gonna die here so you can fuck Quentin in your little shack one more time!” Sam turned in a circle. “I know you want to stay _, but again_ , none of this is real! You’re friends have been fighting too long, and too fucking hard, for you to pussy out now. You’re a fighter, Eliot. Fucking—”

Quentin stepped in front of him, circling his arms around Eliot's waist, his eyes soft but sure. “I think he’s right, Eliot. I don’t want to lose you, but I think you have to save yourself. I’m sorry—”

“No. _No.”_ Eliot felt a tear slip down his face, and he sniffed. Quentin gently wiped the tear away with his thumb. “ _Please_. I can’t lose you again.” Eliot’s breath was coming in shaky as he tried to swallow back the tears that threatened to fall. 

Quentin’s eyes were suspiciously shiny as he gave him a watery smile. “My love. You have to go. You have to be brave. I’ll see you on the other side, ok?”

Eliot started to fully cry now, burying his face into Quentin’s hair. He sobbed once, his voice barely a whisper. “You don’t understand— _please_ —I won’t see _you_ . _”_

Teddy tugged at his pant leg to get his attention. “Papa, it’s going to be ok.” He held his arms up to be picked up, circling Eliot’s neck in a tight hug. Eliot squeezed the pieces of his whole heart fiercely, never wanting to let go. 

Sam stepped up towards their little circle. “Listen to them, Eliot. You have to go. We’re running out of time.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Eliot lifted his head, nodding once. “What do I have to do?” 

Sam scratched his head. “Far as we could gather, you need to find a door. I have no idea what it will look like, just that you’ll know it when you see it.”

“That’s—vaguely unhelpful.” Eliot looked around himself, at the puzzle on the ground, the little home where they had built a life, at the two most important people in his world. He kissed Teddy on the cheek, then, leaning down, captured Quentin’s lips with his own, trying to convey how honored he was that this incredible man had chosen to build something beautiful with him here. He gently cupped his hand around Quentin’s neck, resting their foreheads together. “I did tell you once that when I’m braver, it’s because I learned it from you. I love you. I never stop.”

Quentin began softly crying, giving him one last squeeze. “I love you, too. Always remember that.” Eliot pulled away, setting Teddy on the ground. He knew that if he didn’t go now, he never would. He took one last long look at his family, nodding once at Sam. Squaring his shoulders, he headed into the forest. 

***

He could have been walking for hours, maybe longer; the trees he had become so familiar with over the years now menacing in their sameness. He was beginning to believe he would never find it, but it finally appeared: a slight shimmering in the air, a break in reality. A small door about a foot off of the forest floor. He was weirdly reminded of the stage door in _The Truman Show_ , at the top of stairs in the air leading up towards the truth. He took a deep breath, steeling himself.

Eliot pushed the door open, squinting and holding a hand up against the bright white light shining from within. Now or never. He stepped across the threshold, prepared to encounter Charlton, or even the Monster in his true creature form. He should have guessed, though, really. It should have been so fucking obvious, that the monster Eliot would actually come face-to-face with would be his own worst enemy: _himself._

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the sads—I pinky swear this has a happy ending. Happy Holidays!

**Author's Note:**

> The title is based on the 1973 classic film _Day for Night_. directed by François Truffaut. Which depicts the art of tricking an audience to think daytime is actually night through the magic of movie making.
> 
> I have a lot of this story already plotted and/or written--the holidays may mess up my timeline, but aiming for posting Saturdays.  
> As always, kudos and comments give me life!


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